


Hunger and Home

by songsmith



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Age of Winter (Narnia), Gen, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 21:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16071251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsmith/pseuds/songsmith
Summary: In Telmar, a long winter hardly registers, but rumors of unrest in Narnia spur choices that may re-draw the maps.





	Hunger and Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nasimwrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasimwrites/gifts).



The missive from King Orizca said the same thing the one his father had recieved from King Berazar, and his grandfather from King Ulibar, and probably some ancestor for the very dawn of time had seen it scrawled on crumbling bark: take the Grenhope Valley. 

"And why should it be different this time?" said Beamon sourly, tossing back good _patran_ like small beer. "Another generation of sons to cripple on the border, as though we didn't need them hale to work the land. Suppose you write back and suggest he send some levies from elsewhere, eh? Spread the pain enough, his court might keep him from getting greedy."

"That is your king you're slandering," Lord Cresimar said mildly, rolling the missive into a tight screw.

"Your liege, not mine, thank Santiguel," Beamon replied.

"Mm. Which means I shall be in the Grenhope Valley this spring, I suppose. And as my liegeman, you'll be accompanying me."

"Bastard," Beamon said without heat, pouring them both fresh drinks.

Cresimar accepted the cup. "What was that about not slandering one's liege?" He waved off Beamon's reply before it could become an argument; they were only avoiding the real topic. "You do raise a fair point: why _should_ it be different this time? Orizca is many things, but not generally a fool, and he knows his history. Take a few men out and gather me rumors, Beamon. There must be something stirring for the the king to send such orders at this moment. We'd best know what it is before the snow melts."

 

Winter lingered long in the mountains, and Telmar was nothing but mountain. Messages slowed to a crawl under the weight of blanketing snow, even when storms did not halt them entirely. Cresimar thought little of the lack of word from Beamon, despite the weeks rolling away from them. He drilled his men in the swept yards when the weather allowed, and did not look too hard at the scars carried by the elders at the fire. As Paiza approached and a late storm blew in, he even spared a moment to be envious of Beamon, down in the valleys where Spring would already be showing her face. But a mere week later, Beamon himself stamped into the yard in the middle of a training drill, the scowl on his face apparently as frozen as his beard. Cresimar hurriedly turned the drills over to his man-at-arms and invited Beamon up to the solar.

“What news?” he asked, when Beamon was ensconced in a chair before the hearth and suitably thawed.

“You’ll be having more time to drill than you thought,” Beamon grumbled. “It’s a foot thick on the valley floor and the Greenwyr is still iced over.”

“So late? No wonder you’re as foul-tempered as an early bear. But come, what word in the taverns and on the roads? What news from Narnia?”

“Ah, well, that at least makes sense of Orizca’s orders,” replied his old friend. “The word is that the Narnian king’s dead.”

“That news is stale enough to have reached us here,” said Cresimar. “And nigh useless, as well, since the prince is old enough to stand forth. Unless the old king’s illness has spread? Is it plague?” Good news and bad in one blow, that; the Narnian army would likely be unfit, but if his own people caught and carried it back…

Beamon shook his head. “The illness is called rebellion, and the whole kingdom is sick with it,” he said. “Word out of Archenland is that the prince is dead too, in cold blood.”

“Well!” Cresimar says, aware his jaw was hanging slack while he wrapped his brain around that news. “Well, then. This may be our time indeed. We’ll leave as soon as we can get wagons through the paths; let’s not allow their new leader, whoever it is, time to settle matters.”

 

Three weeks later, Cresimar saw the Grenhope and had his third unpleasant shock of the year, because there were people in the valley. Enough of them to be noticeable from there in the pass, before it began to descend properly.

The Grenhope had never been heavily populated. The Narnians didn’t consider it rich enough to be worth the distance from their main trade routes. That had always been half the insult to Telmar: land that would feed a dozen holds easily, without the backbreaking work of making the rocky terraces yield fruits, wasn’t even being used. No, they wouldn’t farm it, but they’d fight for it, oh, yes — fight as if the Telmarines’ touch on the land would be blight and destruction rather than grateful husbandry. Telmarines had certainly fed the valley’s fertility well enough over the generations, blood and bone; they’d left enough of their own behind in that soft soil that by now it ought to be Telmar anyway. Surely the pantaru walked there in the dusk already.

Now here were Narnians; not a real settlement, but more than a trading caravan or scouting party, where before one might have walked hours without seeing anything larger than a fox. “How could they have known?” Cresimar said, hardly aware he spoke aloud.

Beamon had a glass to his eye, studying the tiny figures along the riverbank. “Those aren’t soldiers,” he said slowly. “Not most of them, at least. I see bows, and two of them have swords, but it’s not an armed camp.”

“It’s Narnians in the valley,” Cresimar returned. “When has that ever happened?”

Beamon passed him the glass. “See for yourself. Whoever they are, they had a hard time getting here.”

When he had the river in focus, Cresimar could see what Beamon meant. The Narnians were a ragged bunch; some had bandages wrapped around limbs, and even those who seemed whole were worn and thin. He’d seen the survivors of bandit raids looking like that after days on the road, limping to safety. “Rebels, do you think?”

“Last I heard, the rebels were winning. Those down there were on the losing side of their fight.” Beamon stole the glass for another look. “Might be bandits about, if the army is busy elsewhere,” he suggested, echoing Cresimar’s thoughts.

“If they move on—” Cresimar started, but even at this distance the evidence of industry was visible; piles of straight young trees lay ready to become framing to replace the tents already erected.

“If I may, my lord,” Beamon said, speaking very slowly and with an unaccustomed formality, as if considering every syllable before it left his lips, “I think it possible no one would miss them.”

Cresimar opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. Behind him he could hear his men standing restive in their ranks, wondering at the delay. The orders from King Orizca weighed heavy in his belt pouch. _Take the Grenhope Valley._ Generations had broken themselves to follow those orders, without success. Now here was the valley, dropped into his hand like a gift from the stars. And a handful of refugees. His eyes traced the path of the river, the dark soil showing at the banks, the wide bowl of the valley stretching away in a patchwork of new green and old snow, and his mind saw golden grain rippling away to the distant trees. He counted the little figures moving among the tents. Counted again. Wet his lips and breathed the sharp spring air slowly.

“Up spears,” he heard his own voice say, clear and strong, and the answering _whuff_ of fifty men moving in unison behind him. “Onward march.”

**Author's Note:**

> The request was: "I would love to see some big social, political and economic issues tackled by Narnia or surrounding countries during different periods of transition. What did surrounding countries think of what was probably a refugee crisis when the White Witch first came into power? What were the economic implications of the fall of Narnia to the Telmarines? How did Archenland, Calormen or anyone decide which side to take? Any of this, all of this, or something entirely different is welcome. I love complex world-building, realistic characters and difficult moral decisions. No culture is inherently evil (not even the Telmarines or the Calormenes… although the Witch might be!)."
> 
> It stalled out without transforming into the longer piece I had hoped for, stretching through the Winter, but I hope this glimpse into Telmar is satisfying all the same.


End file.
